So without waiting to witness that sting of disenchantment, that weariness of deception settle upon Casper’s shoulders, she rushed for the door, threw it open, and fled.
Chapter 27
“True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.”
(Shakespeare)
Casper staggered in the debris of her revelation, wits not scattered to the floor but flung to the heavens and yet to descend.
Mind ablur, his fists fell to the desk. Breath rasped as his eyes glimpsed the strewn diamonds, and each coalesced to a tableau of Evelyn, crystal pure and flawless.
One by one, he gathered them up, dropping them to his fob pocket with a measured hand – their first meeting, impudent and vibrant; the ballroom, insolent and bold; that showing, determined and scared; those hideous lodgings, brave and indomitable; his desk, fiery and passionate…
They’d all beenher.
His defiant beauty.
Hurling himself around, he beheld his painting once more, imagined the girl with Titian hair, and it all became so bloody obvious.
Those brown locks had forever felt wrong, the shade not matching her pallor.
And no wonder.
Because that porcelain skin belonged to a redhead.
To Evelyn.
Damnation. He’d known she had a liar’s tongue, but never had he imagined this depth of duplicity, to attempt what so many had done to his own father. To gain money through a sham, forge a work of art this nobleman could not resist. All with the idea of deceiving the so-called Duke of Diamonds.
“Why?” he whispered, approaching the portrait which had enthralled him, soothed him for so long, and he reached out a finger to urge a response.
But as was usual, a bare shoulder of resolve was her sole reply.
And so he knew the why.
Like the girl Sir Henry had depicted, Evelyn had run out of options. The moneylender’s threats, her fragile sister, that crumbling hovel in Covent Garden and their meagre possessions.
Evelyn Pearce had done what she must to succeed and survive, but instead of bowing down to the depravity and ruin which the moneylender had offered, she’d used her cleverness, talent and downright daring to seek her future.
Her course of action had not been moral or honest or one hundred other ways that his privileged self might deem worthy but… It had brought his defiant beauty straight into his study.
A defiant beauty still, who had perched on his desk and taunted his senses with wit, verve and passion.
Countless questions blinded him, so he closed his eyes, to focus, until at last a thin path between the lies and hurt cleared in his befogged thoughts. A woman stood upon that path dressed in nature’s velvet and with curls of licking fire – eyes downcast but with shoulders straight and bold.
Casper rushed for the door, yanked it open, flew into the hall and darted for the stairs.
“If you are seeking Mrs Swift, Your Grace, she departed some moments ago with the maid.”
He tore around, glared at his butler. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you stop them?”
Copperhouse startled. “I… I did not deem it necessary, Your Grace, they were on foot an–”
He heard no more as he hurtled for the front door, wrenching it wide, eyes scanning the deserted square. They could not have gone far.
The central garden loomed a Stygian black whilst lit flambeaux glowed from each surrounding house, forming a square of pagan fire – celebrating the darkness within.
No living soul stirred, yet Casper darted down the steps, a blast of frigid air encasing him.
